“There’s less than a third left in the bottle,” Larry, the cameraman, whined, the tip of his nose having already gone from red to a worrisome ice-white.
“If you’re looking for sympathy, you’re looking at the wrong guy,” Nick retorted. “In fact, if you’re not careful, there’ll be no Christmas bonus in your stocking this year.”
“Hey, I’ve got a bottle of duty-free tequila and a hot-water bottle,” the soundman Clyde bragged in his very plummy accent.
“You British—always ready to sacrifice yourselves for queen and country, or your boss, in this case. But, hey, I’ll take whatever I can get.”
Georgie exhaled through his mouth as he waited for the others to follow. His breath formed clouds in the frigid air and partially obscured his bearded face. “Just think. It’ll be like old home week.”
“Or something like that,” Nick replied sullenly. He looked down absentmindedly, thinking of someone he could maybe call from his Grantham University days. Was it worth contacting an old college friend after more than fifteen years? he wondered. Then the ground came into focus. And for the first time after what seemed like hours of misery, Nick felt a smile cross his face.
Georgie, he noticed, was standing square in the steaming pile left by the horse.
CHAPTER TWO
May
Grantham, New Jersey
PENELOPE BIGELOW©HELD©the rare second-century manuscript of Galen’s medicinal writings between her white-cotton-gloved hands before placing it in the glass case for display. The Vatican Library had a Latin translation from the Arabic version of the ancient medicinal treatise dating from the eleventh century, but this manuscript in the original ancient Greek had been lost to the West after the fall of Rome, finally resurfacing centuries later. Only someone with a thorough knowledge of ancient and medieval history including Byzantine history, a background in multiple ancient languages, and the trained eye of a paleographer would appreciate the difference between the two versions.
Penelope had all that and more—a Ph.D in Classics and she had studied at the Vatican on a fellowship in Rome ten years ago. While there, she’d also gone through the Apostolic Library’s rigorous two-year course in paleography, the study of ancient handwriting.
Holding the so-called Grantham Galen manuscript in her hands, Penelope could practically feel the power of the ancient scholar and philosopher through the gloves. Galen had been a prolific author, and in his day he was known to have hired more than twenty scribes to take down his potent words. But as she stared at the confident blocklike script, she was almost positive that this manuscript was in Galen’s own handwriting. It was too swiftly written, as if it had been produced in a mad dash of insight.
She read the Greek as swiftly as if it were her mother tongue, though in her case, more her father’s tongue. Stanfield Bigelow was a professor of Classics at Grantham University, and he had made it a personal crusade to homeschool his precocious older child. And it had been he, in fact, who had recovered this lost manuscript and donated it to his alma mater.
The combination of forces—the knowledge that she was holding what might be the original manuscript by the work of an ancient genius and the role that her own father had played in preserving this crucial bit of antiquity—was almost overwhelming. Excited, Penelope felt her mouth start to water.
Don’t be foolish, she chided herself.
“As anyone with even a moderate IQ knows, the overproduction of saliva is attributed to specific physiological or medical conditions. And since I am not a teething infant, nor do I have a fever…” Just to make sure, she felt her forehead with the back of her wrist. “As I thought, normal. Therefore, I can eliminate mononucleosis or tonsillitis as other possible causalities,” she explained to no one in particular.
This type of self-directed conversation was something she tended to do. Her brother, Justin, called it “Penelope’s pontificating mode.” Her father said it was yet another indication of her superior intellect and geniuslike ability to retain facts. Her mother never commented. She was too busy chasing butterflies or spying delicate wildflowers.
Penelope had her own diagnosis, which she kept to herself. Still, it didn’t keep her from lecturing herself.
She lifted her chin and considered her current state further. “The only other causes of sudden drooling that I am aware of are certain medications, poisoning or a reaction to venom transmitted in a snakebite.” She paused. “I wonder if a particularly virulent insect bite could also have a similar effect?”
A young man in a white lab coat on the other side of the exhibition space stopped pushing a cart. “Penelope, did you need me for something?” he asked.
She shook her head and turned to Press. “No, I was just contemplating whether a reaction to an insect bite could induce excess saliva.”
“We once had a chocolate Lab who was stung by a bee and started drooling in reaction,” Press answered as if it were a perfectly normal question.
“I was thinking of the reaction in humans, but I think you make a good point,” Penelope said with a pleased nod.
Conrad Prescott Lodge IV, known as Press, was a senior at Grantham University. He was majoring in biology, with a concentration in paleontology, and while his dream student job would have been to work in a natural history museum, Grantham, alas, lacked such a facility. Given his respect for the fragility, not to mention the importance, of old objects, Penelope had immediately chosen him out of all the applicants for the job of part-time assistant at the university’s Rare Book Library. She had recognized a soul mate when she had asked him about his interest in paleontology and he had launched into a passionate discourse. He eventually stopped when, embarrassed, he realized he’d gone on for almost twenty minutes.
“I’m so sorry,” he had apologized. “I guess I got carried away.”
“No need to be sorry. To be sorry is to express regret for doing something that has upset someone. On the contrary, I found your intense interest illuminating. You may set your mind at ease. The job is yours,” Penelope had announced, followed by the news that she intended to raise his hourly salary by two dollars.
“But I haven’t done anything yet,” Press had protested.
“Oh, but you will. Many things. And by paying you more I just want to ensure that very fact.”
The way he had responded to her query about insect bites just now reaffirmed her initial faith in him.
“I brought over some additional manuscripts for the show,” he said, pointing to the protective boxes lying flat on the shelves of the metal cart. “The illuminated manuscript from the Burgundy, Captain Cooke’s logbook from his voyages in the Pacific and Woodrow Wilson’s love letters to his wife.”
Penelope smiled. The show she was putting together for Grantham University’s main library was comprised of manuscripts held in the university’s Rare Book Library. The show was to run during Reunions and Commencement and, therefore, she had chosen only manuscripts that had been donated by Grantham alumni.
“Thank you, Press. Yes, they’re the ‘warhorses’ of the show, though I must admit…” She gazed at the manuscript in her hands.
Press walked over and stood next to her. Penelope also wore a white lab coat over her clothes, and her strawberry-blond loose curls were twisted to the back of her head. A No. 2 pencil held the unruly mass in place.
“The Grantham Galen?” he asked, on noting what she held. “Now I get why you were asking about bites and stuff.”
Penelope made a face. “Clearly we have been working together too long, and it’s time for you to graduate.”
“Amen,” Press agreed with a praying motion.
Penelope eyed him. “Are you teasing me?”